


Gender roles and doing the dishes.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Erotica, Established Relationship, F/M, Gender Roles, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom comes back from an extended work trip. It’s always good to have somebody waiting for you to return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gender roles and doing the dishes.

Tom Hiddleston is a man appreciative of all things he is _gifted_ (being exactly his choice of terminology, as, according to what he’s told me, he’d like to believe that either material or spiritual gestures that come his way have been directed so with sentiment. I chuckled dryly and threw a quarter at his forehead, declaring my everlasting love. He threw me over his knee and spanked me ‘till I cried) and makes sure to never miss an opportunity to show said appreciation to those who took the irrecoverable time of their lives to pay even the briefest thought of him.

A custom in our household is and has been for the couple of years our relationship propelled to such serious a level that “reliable sources” professed to tabloids of which neither us or our intimate entourage has ever even heard of, that an engagement and offspring are on the way, that whenever our schedules synchronise and we get even the littlest amount of time for ourselves I assume all duties that are traditionally perceived to pertain to the realm of the weaker sex, while he takes generous swigs of a chilled Guinness, feet propped onto the wood coffee table in front of the sofa, august ruler of the remote control, colourfully swearing at sportsmen and shedding virile man-tears should a Doctor Who episode be on. It’s my guilty pleasure, this shameless caving into gender roles, the model of blissful conjugality having been instilled in the unknowledgeable child that I once was by a profoundly, immovably conservative family, and the innate need to pamper those whom I love more overwhelming than my principles or any other judgement-spawned notion.

Taking into account the long run he’s had, filming a considerable amount with insufficient breaks, I made sure to put together a lavish arrangement of his favourite dishes, all precisely fitted to his fastidious gastronomic taste – the man would never openly admit it, but if there’s anything he loves just as much as tennis and Shakespeare, it’s cuisine; give him a table full of homemade and, hungry or not, he’ll be sure to inhale it in the shortest time possible, all health concerns and spiritual convictions forgotten. Fortunately, it was my predisposition to putting together a savoury meal from bits and pieces of leftovers and miscellaneous ingredients one may find in pretty much any middle-class kitchen, that’s secured his affections to me, so the preparations for his return are mostly effortless and without much sweat.

Having excused himself for his upcoming ill manners, Tom, as predicte, wolfs down nearly three helpings with the vigour of one who’s been without nourishment longer than humane, vocal in his gratitude and, once he’s finished, offers his help with putting away the leftovers and plates, only to be ushered away.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender, turns on his heels and deserts the room, throwing an “I’ll leave you to your housewife business, then” over his shoulder.

Half an hour later, food neatly stored into plastic containers in the fridge and general tidying up completed, halfway through doing the dishes I find myself groaning both at the sharp pain shooting through my upper back and my moronic impracticality in designating my purchases primarily according to their value as decorative items rather than purposed usage.

“I think we both agree we ought to buy another sink, yes?”

His tone is full of mirth and matter of fact at the same time. I smile to myself at the smugness and shake my head, hearing his long strides as he approaches me. His embrace is warm and firm, a couple of vertebrae popping audibly as I straighten my spine against his chest, dissonant to his humming of a song the both of us took a fancy to, resonating in the crook of my neck where his lips are resting.

“Hmmm… What about you sit aside and keep on looking pretty while I finish this?”

My whine of refusal is imminent and obnoxious so he says nothing but pulls me to the nearest chair, sits me and pats the top of my head, resuming the activity he prohibited me from finishing, remaining silent as he goes through the porcelain articles.

Generally, I would take such course of events for granted – we’re both tired and, although my genuine pleasure, I _did_ spend an awful lot of time preparing everything, trying to create as much of a homey feeling for him as possible, knowing that, her being out of town and her home cooked meals the absolute best, I couldn’t compete with his mother. It’s just something about parents and grandparents and their food that probably comes with age. But tonight, staring at his broad shoulders hunched over the too low sink, something flickers inside me and all I want is to cherish, _worship_ the man in front of me in every way that I possibly can, to express the overwhelming feeling surging though parts in my exalted to such a degree it brings tears to my eyes just looking at him at times.

I’m gonna blow him.

Jumping from my seat, I tug him aside and turn off the tap, kneeling as I unbutton his jeans and yank them off along with his boxers, mouth immediately overflowing at the sight of generously naked skin. As a fairly active pre-relationship and even more so ever since I committed, heterosexual woman, there are few things that cause me such raw hunger than the up-close-and-personal view of the male genitalia, and the fervent need of satisfying its possessor is probably the most charitable – albeit not from the goodness of my very heart – drive I’ve ever had.

“Baby,” I theatrically moan, kissing along his happy trail. “Are you going to get hard for me?”

He approbatively hums, a grave sound from deep in his chest, purposefully ignoring my lamentable dramatic aptitudes in favour of what I believe to be his need of just getting on with it, considering his recent abstinence.

I take him in my hand – poor bastard is already half hard – and jerk him off, looking him dead in the eyes the entire time, down on my knees as he likes me best, holding onto his leg and narrating my plans in an obnoxiously sweet voice which actually seems to work, as he’s nearly completely erect just a couple of minutes in (I should require more periods of chastity on his part – this got ridiculously easy really fast).

“Take out your tits.”

This is a command if I ever heard one, and my execution of it is wordless and swift, unbuttoning my shirt and pulling out my breasts over the cups of my bra, tight skin of my nipples sore with the uncomfortable constriction, but also pleasurable when he takes one between his fingers, mercilessly rubbing it until I practically cry out both my delight and will for more.

He coos at me, preparing to go further, but his intention is lost somewhere on the way when I latch my mouth to his balls, gently sucking as my hand continues its back and forth motion. I can feel the tremor in the hard meat on his thighs as I lick the underside of his member, then take him in my mouth, straining jaw prohibiting me to take him in more than a few inches at first, but loosening, after a few more forced bobs, allowing further entrance. His form of address is derogatory at best, nothing of the prim britishness he inherited about it, nothing but rough defilation and relishing in my degradation. He pulls my hair and pushes himself down my throat until, choking, tears form at the corners of my eyes, trails of watery mascara running down my cheeks and of the crisp white collar of my goody two shoes white linen garment of my stereotypically Upper East Side wife uniform.

When he comes it’s on my face, and I enthusiastically take it, because I know that Tom Hiddleston is a man appreciative of all things he is gifted, and Tom Hiddleston is a man that always takes his sweet time returning favours.

**Author's Note:**

> Iz a blowjob >.


End file.
